


Inspiration

by coconutjelly596



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, Inspired by a The Amazing Devil Song, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Song: The Horror and the Wild (The Amazing Devil)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24598882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutjelly596/pseuds/coconutjelly596
Summary: Geralt doesn’t always know what inspires a particular piece of Jaskier’s music.Some, of course, are obvious.After another fight about Jaskier joining during a hunt leads to a new composition. Inspired by The Horror and The Wild, by The Amazing Devil.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 65





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

> Listening to THATW, I felt like it spoke to the relationship between Jaskier and Geralt as two sort of wild children with abandonment issues and more sense of honor than self-preservation. This is the fight that inspires Jaskier, and only mentions the song itself in passing.

Geralt doesn’t always know what inspires a particular piece of Jaskier’s music.

Some, of course, are obvious - ballads of Geralt’s own history, never more than half accurate, or odes to whichever fair lady had stolen Jaskier’s heart that month. He sings just as much of heartbreak, which would make sense, given how often he takes a new lover, except that he rarely seems torn up at the end of an affair.

Others though, are more abstract. Last season’s ballad about the frozen beast of the winter wastelands being bested by a golden sun, for example. For a man who hated the cold, Jaskier wrote a lot about snow and winter - probably, Geralt figured, because he hated the real thing so much, he wanted to romanticize it. 

Songs that don’t tell a story at all, with solemn lyrics of an ancient wood and wistful dreams of empty beaches, Geralt assumes those are poetic metaphors for...something. He never examines those close enough to puzzle it out; he gets enough wordplay from prophecies and sorcerers.

It seems that the young bardling is always composing something, and it doesn’t always result in a literal interpretation of events, or even of the world around him. Which brings them to this moment - Jaskier holding his pack, looking furious as Geralt mounts Roach, armed for battle.

“And just what am I supposed to do?” he rages.

“Make a stew. I’ll be hungry after the hunt. And be ready to run if it goes bad.”

“ _ I will not! _ ” 

“You will stay with the camp, and that is  _ final.” _

“You-you brute! You are  _ not _ my keeper, Geralt of Rivia!”

“And yet, I  _ keep _ you alive.”

“Oh, haha, save a man’s life a handful of times, and suddenly he can’t take care of himself.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Geralt sighs.

Jaskier softens visibly, looking touched. “You really mean that?”

Geralt grunts wordlessly, then, “You couldn’t take care of yourself before I found you.”

The discordant shriek of indignation that leaps out of Jaskier at that would ordinarily be enough to make him smile, but he’s too tired of having this same argument over and over. 

“You, my muse and wonder, would deny me inspiration?”

“You’ve written nothing yet from the last hunt you joined.”

“ _ That _ ,” Jaskier grits icily, “is not the point. I can’t control when the music speaks to me.”

Geralt is utterly done with this conversation. “Maybe you just can’t hear it,” he snipes, guiding Roach around at a canter in the direction the alderman had indicated. He shouts back over his shoulder, “Have you tried talking less?”

He tries not to hear the insults that Jaskier throws at him as he disappears between the trees.

-+-

It’s dark by the time Geralt returns with the head of his bounty, and he’s guided back to their campsite in part by the aroma of stew and in part by a melody unlike anything he's heard.

When he glimpses the bard at the edge of the clearing, Jaskier is playing his lute in a way Geralt has never before witnessed. He plays as though he must punish the elven-made instrument for a mortal offense, alternating between plucking the strings and slapping the flat of the wood like a drum. His notebook is open beside him, and Geralt can see a large smear of ink where Jaskier hadn’t let it dry before turning the page.

“Planning to murder another lute?” he asks casually.

Jaskier’s gaze slices to him with a vitriol that indicates the  _ lute _ is not the victim he has in mind. 

“I’m writing a song about what an arse you are,” he spits.

“Won’t do much for the public image, will it?” he quips.

Geralt swears he can  _ hear _ Jaskier rolling his eyes. “I’m an artist for a reason, a wordsmith of the highest caliber. The meaning will be hidden in metaphor and imagery.”

“So only you will know it means I’m an arse?”

Jaskier grumbles something that isn’t quite words but still manages to convey an unpleasant meaning.

“Would you kindly let me work out my emotions in my own way?” He turns away from Geralt, which unfortunately is also away from the fire. After a few moments, he turns back to his only light source and continues strumming, drumming, and scribbling. 

As Jaskier works, Geralt silently removes and cleans his armor and ensures his bedroll is prepared, before sitting in front of the fire to find steaming stew already waiting for him. He grunts his thanks as he takes his portion. He can feel the tension in the air, can smell the sullen rage still simmering in his companion. He has nothing constructive to say on the matter though, so he decides to let Jaskier speak when he’s ready. As anticipated, it doesn’t take long.

“I’m sorry for calling you a brute,” Jaskier says quietly. “And an arse.”

Geralt lifts an eyebrow. “And a pox-riddled horsefucker?” 

The bard at least has the good manners to wince and look abashed. “Heard that, did you?”

“Hm.”

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt shrugs, going back to his stew. “You say a lot of things you don’t mean.” He lets the silence fall, guessing correctly that Jaskier is not done expressing himself, and knowing that he will speak again when he is ready.

“I’ve always been hungry for adventure. That’s why I’ve been with you, to be free,” he says sulkily. “But you treat me like a child who can’t manage himself out in the woods. You flit about the Continent as you please, yet tell me I oughtn’t do the same.”

“I don’t flit; I’m not a bird,” Geralt huffs. He sets his elbows on his knees, looking contemplatively into the fire. 

Jaskier leans over to clasp a hand on the back of his neck, pressing their foreheads together, a gesture Geralt mirrors. It is a greeting of Witchers, and one Geralt taught him. It is the only intimacy they allow themselves, the only grounding touch on the Path. Jaskier stares him firmly in the eye as he says, “I am a man grown, Geralt. I know the dangers I’m facing.”

Geralt sighs, grinding his teeth and trying to keep in the words that might make Jaskier understand; the words that might finally send him away. Instead, he curls his fingers through the fine hairs at the base of Jaskier’s neck and presses his mouth to the young man’s forehead. It’s too harsh to call it a kiss. It isn’t passionate, nor is it chaste, but it is fiercely emotional and filled with frustration and concern.

He pulls back, still gripping Jaskier’s nape, and is both pleased and frightened to see the wide-eyed expression the unexpected gesture has earned. “I’ve walked the Path for five of your lifetimes,” he reminds the bardling. “You  _ are _ a child, in this. Most humans would see what I see only in their nightmares. The Path is a parade of horrors.”

“I’m not afraid,” Jaskier whispers hoarsely. “I know I’m safe with you.”

Well that’s...that’s a new concept, entirely, and one for Geralt to Think About Later, but it’s exactly the point he’s been trying to make. “I can’t always do my job and protect you at the same time. Some hunts, I can’t afford the distraction. If I have to make a choice in an instant to protect you or to stop a beast from hurting more innocents…” He shakes his head, disgusted with himself.

“I know you’ll always protect the innocents first,” Jaskier assures him. “You’re a Witcher, it’s what you-”

But, “No, I won’t. Not if it’s you or them. Nor if it’s you or me.”

Geralt finally releases the other man, who weaves a bit on the spot, chewing his lower lip. "What if I learned to fight, to protect myself? You could teach me."

That does earn a frustrated chuckle. “You are a bold thing, I’ll give you that. Get some rest, little one. We make for the alderman at daybreak."

They bank down the fire and settle into their bedrolls after that. Geralt prepares to meditate, too exposed here in the woods to risk full sleep. 

“I’ll keep asking, you know,” Jaskier says into the dark. 

Geralt isn't sure if he means learning to fight or coming on a hunt. Either way, "Maybe in a few years, once you’ve got more of the wild in you.”

-+-

Jaskier’s new song debuts as a hit. The tavern’s patrons are all on their feet, stamping and clapping, roused by the passion and feral energy of the newest piece. As he predicted, not one member of the audience seems to realize it’s about Geralt being an arse. 

Geralt is positioned with the best view of the room, as always, so Jaskier has the best possible vantage point to stare him directly in the eye while singing some of the more pointed lyrics of the number.

He finally sees a spark of recognition in Geralt’s eye the third time through the chorus, and knows the message has at least been partially received.

He’s called up for no fewer than three encores before he is allowed to return to his seat across from Geralt and the cold ale he gratefully accepts from the stoic man.

“Your review?” he prompts, thirst sated. “Three words or less.”

Geralt tries to glare, but feels a bit of a smirk steal onto his cheek. “Old man?” he chides.

“Well, you know…” Jaskier looks down into his ale, then back up through his eyelashes in a way that Geralt knows he knows usually gets him forgiven. “Artistic license.”

Geralt doesn’t always know what inspires a particular piece of Jaskier’s music.

Some, of course, are obvious.


End file.
